


Worth It

by Heronfem



Series: Bad Company [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (kinda), Character Study, Dean is stressed, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes a few deep breaths, staring in the mirror.  Okay.  Okay.  He can do this</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth It

He takes a few deep breaths, staring in the mirror. Okay. _Okay_. He can do this. It’s been a few months since he’s had to, but his dad’s gone again and Sam’s growing like a weed. He physically can’t survive on just a single school meal a day, and Dean’s had a few too many hungry nights himself, now. Dad always tried to leave them with enough to get by, but the hunt had dragged on, and he couldn’t stand another night without at least a hot dog or something.

But it is so, so hard to do this.

It never gets any easier, smudging up bits of plants around his eyes (thank you, Sammy, for the hour long lecture on how they made eyeliner from kohl “which is really just burned up plants, Dean”. Very helpful) and it definitely doesn’t get any easier to wriggle into too-tight jeans and a shirt that fits like a second skin. It’s the Ramones shirt again- he’s finding that the Ramones are a nice way to draw in nice men with a taste for bad boys.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a bit, swallowing hard and just taking in the miserable expression on his face. It’s not a good look for him.

“I don’t want to do this,” he whispers to his reflection. “I really, really don’t.”

The mirror gives him absolutely no sympathy.

Sighing, he adjusts the shirt and goes to find the box of condoms that he’s stashed in the bedside table’s lower cabinet bit.

Sam’s studying on the bed, and Dean only feels a bit of a twinge of guiltiness when he thinks that he maybe should have actually graduated- tried a little harder, been a little better example. It all goes away, though, when he remembers that the day he didn’t take his tests it was because he was recovering from a man who’d all but torn him apart the night before, but paid. Sam had eaten. It was enough to make it worth it.

“I’m going out.”

Sam flinches, curling in on himself, and Dean sighs. Sam’s sixteen, with the world ahead of him, and Dean…well, Dean’s a twenty-year-old two-bit whore who happens to know how to kill the things that go bump in the night.

He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You keep hitting those books,” he says too loudly. “You’re smart, Sammy, don’t let that good-lookin’ Asian chick take your spot at head of the class.”

Sam manages to give him a half-hearted glare and grumbles, “Jack’s got _nothing_ on me, Dean, and he’s not a girl.”

Dean grins at him, reassured by the exchange, and heads back into the kitchen area.

Tossing on his jacket, he headed out the door. Dad liked to think it was his jacket, but he worried at it and never seemed able to keep it on long, so it had just become Dean’s. It was soothing, and while it was a liability, he didn’t care. It warded off the chill, and at twenty he’s still far enough away from bulky to want the help.

Steeling himself, he steps out into the night.

/\/\

When he comes home- well, “home” – he finds Sam curled up in bed, clearly suffering from a bit of a nightmare. Groaning, he shrugs off his jacket, and slowly manages to sit beside his brother, wincing a bit. Resting a hand on his shoulder, he talks, low, quiet, and soothing until Sam’s faint tremors still and the stress lines disappear from his forehead.  
Then it’s up again, slowly making his way to the bathroom, stripping out of a shirt he’s already slid out of no less than eight times that night and letting it fall to the floor, then slowly forcing his legs out of the jeans. It hurts. It’s also very slow going, not aided by hand-print bruises on his thighs and sides.

He hisses a couple choice words under his breath as he works the stiff, uncomfortable clothing off. Gingerly prodding at the aforementioned bruising only manages to make him wince again and let out words in a tone that’s too loud for the moment, but acceptable. Sam sleeps like a log when he’s had a nightmare, so he’s not too worried when he accidentally bumps his hip against the sink and just about falls over, keening quietly with the surprisingly heady burst of pain.

He had figured he’d be used to it by now- the pain and the stiffness that came with the territory he’d thrown himself into. He never was, probably never would be, if he was being honest with himself. He was used, abused, and had little bits of paper (fabric, a nagging Sam-voice said in his head, they make money from fabric) dropped on him like he was nothing. It wasn’t exactly the most painless of jobs, and that was something he should have remembered before he was being shoved forcefully against a wall.

At least it would keep them going, and Sam away from the poker tables. His brother deserved better, so much better than card counting in dingy back rooms with questionable people. Dean was supposed to protect him from people with shady morals, not let him run rampant with them. 

Maybe he should hustle pool the next week, he thinks. He’s not sure that he can handle another round of this particular game, as sore and miserable as he is. They’ll be staying for at least a month, after all. Sam’s had a massive blowout with Dad, and in an effort to appease him, Dad agreed to a month at the same school, which means A) Dean’ll need a large amount of money and B) Dad’ll probably be gone a lot to neighboring cities on different cases. 

The shower heats up blessedly fast, and he groans when he gets in, the almost scalding water clearing off the feel of people’s hands all over him, eyes raking over him like he was meat on display at a butcher shop, faces leering at him as they passed. It wipes away all the bad thoughts and the planning, all the things he’s been worrying about, and it is wonderful.

Fifteen minutes of desperate scrubbing later, he almost feels human again, and when he falls into bed, stark naked because moving hurts too much, all he can think is _worth it_.


End file.
